“Did I mention that this conversation is being recorded?” Stone asked.
Rutledge hung up.
Stone looked up to see Arrington standing in the doorway.
“That was very good,” she said. “Very professional. Were you really recording him?”
“Yes,” Stone said.
“Was he angry?”
“Yes. He kept saying he didn’t understand why you wouldn’t see him.”
She nodded. “It figures. He was a perfectly nice person, until he heard your name.”
“From whom did he hear it?”
“From me. I told him that Peter and I were spending Christmas with you. He demanded to know who you were, and I told him you are an old friend. That didn’t help. He started asking questions about you, and I cut him off.”
“How long had you been seeing him?” Stone asked.
“Since shortly after construction started on the house. It was foolish of me, I guess, to become involved with someone who worked for me, but you weren’t around, and I was lonely.”
“Does Peter know him?”
“They’ve met once. I’ve kept him away from Tim.”
“Well, let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” Stone said. “He’s been warned.”
17
P eter put on his overcoat and gloves, tucked his leather envelope under his arm, left the house, first making sure his key was in his pocket, walked up to Third Avenue, and hailed a cab. “Two-oh-five West Fifty-seventh Street,” he said to the driver, looking at the address written on the back of his father’s card.
The driver said nothing to him but talked rapidly into his cell phone in a language that Peter thought was Arabic or Urdu. The man drove as quickly as possible in the traffic, and arrived at the building in ten minutes. Peter paid and tipped the man, as his father had told him to, and got out of the cab. It was, he reflected, the first time he had been in a New York City taxicab alone. He walked into the building and was greeted by a man in a uniform.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, please. I have an appointment with Miss Letitia Covington.”
The man picked up a phone. “Your name?”
“Peter Ca-Barrington,” he said, correcting himself quickly.
The man announced him, gave him the apartment number, and told him to go up.
Peter got on the elevator and pressed the correct button. He checked his hair and the knot in his tie in the car’s mirror and exited into a vestibule. Before he could ring the bell the door opened and he was greeted by a uniformed maid.
“I’m Peter Barrington,” he said, and she took his coat and led him into a sunny living room facing Fifty-seventh Street. A handsome, gray-haired woman of an age he could not determine sat in an armchair.
“Peter? I’m Letitia Covington,” she said, indicating that he should sit on the sofa next to her chair.
“How do you do, Miss Covington,” he said. He shook the offered hand, which was cool and dry, and sat down.
“Would you like tea?”
“Thank you, ma’am, yes.”
“Milk or lemon?” she asked, reaching for the pot on a silver tray before her.
“Lemon, please, and two sugars.”
The woman smiled to herself and poured.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter said, accepting the cup.
She offered him a tray of pastries. “Something to eat?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, now,” she said, “I’m told you are interested in attending Knickerbocker Hall.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Tell me why?”
“My goal is to be a film director,” he replied, “but my last school had only a limited program.”
“I see. I’m told you just graduated. How did you come to graduate in December?”
“I was an advanced student, and at the end of the last term I had an oral examination on the high school curriculum with six faculty members, and they decided to graduate me. They said they had nothing further to offer me, and I agreed with them.”
“You must be very bright.”
“They tell me so.”
“Peter, have you ever had an IQ test?”
Peter felt his cheeks color. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And what was your score?”
Peter gulped. “I… believe it was one hundred sixty-one,” he said.
She laughed. “You mustn’t be embarrassed about that,” she said. “That’s a very high score. You might avoid telling people about it, though, unless they corner you, as I did.”
Peter smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And why do you wish to be a film director?”
“Well, my stepfather was an actor, and I grew up around a lot of film people when we lived in Los Angeles, and I liked them. Then I started seeing a lot of old films and reading about them, and pretty soon, it was about all I could think about. I guess I was around eight then.”
“And what was your stepfather’s name?”
“Vance Calder,” Peter replied.
Her face brightened. “Ah, I met him a few times,” she said. “He was charming, and, of course, he was one of our best film actors.”
“Miss Covington, I would appreciate it if we could keep his name between us.”
She looked surprised. “Why?”
“Because, ever since we left Los Angeles, people have treated me differently because of his name, and I’ve never liked it. If I go to Knickerbocker, I want to be just Peter Barrington.”
“I understand perfectly,” she said, “and I admire you for not using his name shamelessly to advance yourself, the way that many children of famous people have done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Have you brought any of your work?” she asked.
Peter opened his leather envelope. “Here is a screenplay I’ve written,” he said.
“Give me a moment,” she said, then opened the folder and began to read quickly, turning the pages. She stopped and looked up. “That is an excellent first scene,” she said. “I particularly like the dialogue. I’ll read it all later.”
He handed her his DVD. “I’ve edited the first seventy minutes,” he said. “I expect I’ll finish it soon.”
“You mean it’s already shot?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Peter, did anyone help you write this?”
“Well, I had a faculty adviser, but he wasn’t much help. He was a music teacher.”
She smiled. “I see. I was going to ask you if you knew exactly what a film director does, but you obviously do. Why Knickerbocker?”
“I’ve read about the program, and I think it suits what I want to do very well.”
“Tell me what you want to do, beyond directing.”
“I want to learn to work with actors and direct theater.”
“And how do you propose to learn to work with actors?”
“By becoming an actor myself,” Peter replied. “My role model is Elia Kazan.”
“Ah, yes, Gadge,” she said. “That was his nickname, but he didn’t like it. I didn’t know that until I read his autobiography. Have you read it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter replied. “Twice.”
“I see. And what do you want to do after graduation from Knickerbocker?”
“I want to go to the Yale School of Drama,” Peter replied, “for the same reasons I want to go to Knickerbocker.”
“Peter, I’ve no doubt that you would fit in perfectly at Knickerbocker,” she said. She picked up a folder and handed it to him. “This is an application. Please fill it out and return it to me with a copy of your birth certificate and your transcript from your previous school.”
Peter handed her the documents. “I have those right here,” he said. “May I fill out the application now?”
She laughed again. “Yes, you go right ahead. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said.
“I’m going to give you a few minutes to complete the application, and then I’ll come back,” she said, rising.
Peter stood with her, and she left. He opened the folder and began to fill in the blanks.
Letitia Covington went into her study, sat down at her desk, picked up the phone and dialed the number of the headmaster of Knickerbocker Hall, who lived on the floor below her. “Arthur,” she said, “it’s Letitia.”
“Good afternoon, Letitia. How did you know to find me at home?”